Bells of Avalon (19 page)

Chapter Nineteen

New York City, New York

1966

The echo of a chime filled Max’s office as he slammed the phone down.  He breathed a deep, aggravated sigh and leaned back in his leather chair. He stared at the ceiling, contemplating the thought of just showing up, bribing the doorman and muscling his way in. But that wouldn’t do either. Something didn’t feel right, but that didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong. It just meant that he wanted to see her so badly he’d invented an excuse to worry.  It didn’t matter in the end if some rookie reporter got to her. She’d fielded more idiot news jockeys than he could imagine. There wasn’t much that could surprise her at this stage of the game. She didn’t need his help.

It wasn’t the first time she’d avoided his phone calls since she’d moved out of their apartment, but he’d usually gotten a hold of her eventually. Accessibility was Katie’s bit; it was what had kept her famous all those years. But for some reason these past few weeks, she’d gone completely dark on him—harder to reach than Garbo. That sent his nerves a jangle. It was too close to another day she’d been like hell to reach.

She hadn’t wanted to go back to work so soon after the baby, but she’d painted herself in a corner with the studio. Her attorney had pulled out all the stops to renegotiate the lengthy indentured servitude of a previous contract.  After a standoff of several months they’d given her what she’d wanted: a bit more money, plus they’d knock two years off the seven-year contract if she committed to two more pictures (and an option for a third when the time came). After two decades of slaving through nearly every slant of showbiz, she’d gained the success to leverage for a bit of control over her life. She could finally make plans of her own, which hadn’t exactly included getting pregnant. Colin had been a surprise—but a nice one. She’d had only five months with him before she had to fly back to California to make one of the commitment pictures. There’d been no way around it without breaking her contract. That wouldn’t do with the club barely breaking even and a new baby at home.

Everything would be fine, he’d told her. They hired a nanny off a blue-blooded family uptown—come as highly recommended as Mary Poppins. What's more was that he was the kid’s own father after all. If they couldn’t handle the baby, who could? Katie was a girl raised only by her father and nannies, so maybe the notion wasn’t too far from normal. Still she’d felt strange about it. When he’d dropped her at the airport, she’d said she had a bad feeling. That things…
felt different than how they should.
She was always saying stuff like that. He’d never known how superstitious she was until they’d gotten married. Usually he found it adorable. But on that day at the airport, it had made him feel completely helpless. As though there was absolutely nothing he could say or do to set her at ease. He realized then that her anxiety came from a more profound place than he could ever fathom. He told her that everything would be fine. He watched her smile, not knowing if she actually believed him. Katie was a very good actress.

Colin was a quiet baby; he rarely made a fuss or holler. He was easy to feed, easy to put down. She’d once asked Albert and Lilly why he didn’t seem to cry as much as other babies. Why he didn’t seem so full of zip as their kids…but they’d simply told her to count her lucky stars for a baby who slept through the night. So they had.
Easy peasy
. That was why he hadn’t worried the night he came home late from the club—three in the morning to be exact. He told the nanny to take the guest bedroom if she wanted it. She said no, wanting to get home to enjoy her next day off. She checked on him before she left, at least she said she had. He was fine. Something inside had urged him to take a second look inside the nursery—but he hadn’t.

He’d barely been able to keep his eyes open as he walked by the nursery, making sure the door was creaked wide in case Colin started crying.

He’d managed to remove his shoes and undo his tie before falling straight onto the bed.  The next morning he woke slowly to the sound of the telephone ringing. Still groggy, he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. When he saw the time, his heart jumped out of his chest. It had been the only time in his life he’d known something for certain. He rushed down the hallway toward the nursery, the door still open halfway to hear the cries that had never happened. He couldn’t bring himself to look into the crib. Instead he looked at the simple blue wallpaper his wife had chosen in lieu of dancing teddy bears. He touched the cold, hard bundle of his child’s body then opened his mouth to scream—though no sound came.

He was still dressed in a suit smelling of stale cigarettes and broiled steak when help came—but there wasn’t anything to be done. He watched a broad-shouldered paramedic in a teal shirt carry the baby away in a blanket. It was another six hours until she returned his call. Her uninformed voice had been so bright and sweet over Ma Bell’s telephone line.
Easy Peasy
. 

Cot death sounded like something that happened in Victorian novels. It had no place in mid-century Manhattan. But somehow it had found them and grossly violated the natural order of their lives. It didn’t matter how many times the doctors told her it couldn’t have been prevented. A few months later, he came home from work to find she’d locked herself in Colin’s room. He called out her name but she didn’t answer. When he held his ear to the door, he heard her whispering something he couldn’t quite make out. He pressed his ear hard to the door and finally heard that she was counting, obsessively counting in a low voice. When he busted down the door, the room was ice-cold. She’d opened the windows and pulled down the blue edge of Colin’s wallpaper. Still wearing her thin nightgown, she’d torn the wallpaper to tiny pieces. She was counting the shreds of paper, pushing them about to get perfect symmetry between each piece. Colin’s clothes and shoes had been pulled from their drawers and piled perfectly in each corner of the room.

Like a kid, he panicked and called his big brother. Albert arrived twenty minutes later, covered her in a blanket and carried her to a taxi waiting below. She was treated for dehydration at the hospital but was otherwise fine. She spent the afternoon with a psych nurse. He and Albert spent an hour explaining that the scars on her wrist were from a car accident seven years ago—and not something else.  The hospital agreed to release her early before press got wind of what was going on.  Katie was damn near phobic about her private life. She’d have died if this made it to the gossip rags. Most of the press didn’t even know she’d gotten married. She broke down and told her manager only when she had to cop to being pregnant.

A few weeks later they found a private shrink who recommended Thorazine and Nembutal.  She went on the cocktail for a year, getting better when it all came down to it. By the time she went back to work, they were little better than two strangers sharing an apartment. They had only been married a few months when Katie found out she was pregnant. After Colin, he thought maybe there wasn’t much left for them. That maybe he’d been kidding himself that she’d actually wanted him in the first place. There was always a piece that she held back. Maybe, it was that piece of her that’d never been too keen on the marriage. He tried not to think about that in the early days—but as things got worse between them, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

She packed a bag and went to Albert and Lilly’s one day while he was at work.

“When are you coming back?” he’d asked. There was a silence on the other end of the phone line.

“I don’t know. I just need some time. Please understand.”

“Understand what? That my wife can’t stand to be in the same room with me?”

“That’s not fair, Max,” she sighed.

He heard the sound of his sister-in-law talking to one of his nieces in the background. Katie mumbled something to her about dinner then spoke to him again.

“Look, Max—I’ve got to go.”

“Katie wait—” he’d grumbled into the phone, but she was gone.

He didn’t hear from her for another two months. She dodged his calls until he finally persuaded her to meet him for coffee. She showed up in a fuzzy blue sweater, her cheeks blushed from the cold. She ordered espresso. After the waitress brought it out—he asked her if she still loved him. She said nothing for awhile, looking down at her coffee. 

“Yes,” she’d finally replied.

“Then come home, please.” He took her hand from across the table, but she pulled away.

“Max, I can’t—not yet,” she’d said. She finished her coffee and said she’d call him the next week. She did. After that she started taking his calls in return. Eventually he tried to nuzzle her back towards reconciliation. When he did that, she cut the conversation short. Lately he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop—the divorce shoe. Every flannel suit lurking around the club seemed a likely chap to serve him with papers.

Max looked again at the phone on his desk. He reached out for the receiver. He paused just before picking it up then sighed and dropped his hand to his lap. He sunk back into his chair just as he heard the door creak open. He smelled Effie’s perfume before he saw her—and turned in his chair. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in waves against her face. She wore a thin, navy dress that clung to the curves of her figure.

“Don’t worry about those invoices for tonight. I can go through the payables in the morning, if you want,” she said.

“I don’t mind. I’m almost finished,” he lied, looking over the piles of itemized statements for Kennebec salmon, hearts of lettuce, and Roquefort dressing.  He hadn’t even got to the coffee and liquor.

“C’mon, Max. Give up the ghost. I won’t tell Albert if you won’t? What do you say we sneak out the back, with no one the wiser?” she proposed, siren-like.

“If Albert found out you fleeced me out of work, you’d be in worse trouble than me, kid.” He swiveled to face her full-on and smiled. She placed her arms on either side of his chair until her face was inches from his own. He looked at the simple, sexy quality of her red lips.
Easy peasy
. Her smile fell when she glanced over to a framed picture on his desk: Katie Webb sitting for a highly glamorized portrait.

She straightened herself and looked down at him. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she was pouting. He eased forward and took her dangling hands in his. He gave her a slick, low-spirited smile that still managed to showcase his perfect teeth.

“Another night, kid.”

Chapter Twenty

New York City, New York

1966

Katie told him to wait in the lobby while she went upstairs to get a heavier jacket. She’d heard it might get cold later. She’d talked him into tagging along while she finished up some Christmas shopping. She said she wanted to watch the skaters at Rockefeller, too. It was coming up on lunch, and he knew she’d try to make him eat again. She’d settled for Peruvian empanadas after he flat-out refused Lobster Newburg at stuffy midtown joint she’d recommended. He reached for his cigarettes deep inside the pocket of the Alpaca coat she’d insisted on buying him. His fingers felt the pagoda-shape of his lighter, but his cigarettes were gone. She’d hidden them again. He pulled the lighter out and flipped it in his hand. He took in a breath, albeit smokeless, and looked at the crystal chandelier above his head. It cascaded down into a dozen or so pieces, each one a prism to the yellow light of the lobby. He reached again for his cigarettes, an idle habit, before remembering again she’d taken them. She still thought she could fix him. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he couldn’t be fixed.
No dice, satin doll
. He looked down from the gaudiness of the chandelier and saw a young man in a straw fedora speaking to one of the porters. He slowly walked over until he could hear the basics of the conversation.

“C’mon, Nate, I’ve always been good to you haven’t I?”

The bellman nodded his head,
even-steven
.

“I’ll give you a ten-spot free and clear—just tell me if she’s staying here and when she comes and goes. That’s all I need.”

“Look, I’d like to help you out but the boss has been cracking down. Big-rollers like her aren’t coming around so much these days with reporters snooping around,” the bellman said.

“I’m a writer—”

“What?”

“I’m a writer, not a—never mind.”

“Yeah, like I said—if I get caught talking to
reporters
like you, it’ll be my job,” the bellman said and braced his thick arms on the brass luggage trolley.

“Hey, I’m just a working man like you. I’ve got a boss that’s on my back for a deadline. Look, I know she’s here. Just tell me when she comes around is all.”

“Well if you know so much, hot shot, what’ya need me for?” The bellman slapped his hand on the reporter’s shoulder and laughed. “Now get outta here and don’t bother me no more.”

The bellhop pushed the luggage-laden cart up the lobby. The man removed his hat and raked his hand through his hair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. Catching Daniel watching, he lifted his chin to him.

“Hey, buddy, lend me a light will you?”             

Daniel tilted his head and remembered the red lighter in his hand. He tossed the lighter to him. The reporter fired up his own cigarette then lifted the pack up to offer one to Danny. Danny took one and caught the lighter as it was thrown back.

“That’s a lighter all right. I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid. How’d you happen by it?” 

“My father picked it up in the Pacific, during the war that is,” Daniel said.

“No kidding?”

“God’s truth.”

“You look familiar to me, have we met?”

“I don’t think so.” Danny shrugged.

The young reporter placed the fedora back on his head and extended his hand for Danny to shake.

“The name’s Coolidge.”

Danny paused for a moment before taking his hand.

“Lykkegaard.” Danny said and shook his hand.

“That’s quite a handle you have there,
Ruskie
?”

“Nah, Nordic.”

“I see,” the reporter replied, “what business you in?”

“Song and dance man, you?”

“I work for
Tempo Magazine
.”

“Yeah, a writer I hear.”

“Something like that… but maybe not for much longer. I got a load of dead copy on my hands. This might be my third strike.”

“That’s the breaks. I wish I could help.” Danny said.

“Maybe you can. I’m looking for Katie Webb.”

“Aren’t we all?” Danny smiled.

“Nah, it’s nothing like that. Seen her around the hotel by chance?”

“Can’t says I have. Must be a big story if you’re looking for her.”

“Just a piece about some old pictures she did as a kid.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Kiddie flicks put out by Smirk ‘a’ Gram in the 40s. There was a whole series.”

“Oh yeah? Never heard of them.”

“C’mon, you’re a song and dance man, right? They were huge right after the war, her and that Gallagher kid. I thought every kid in America went to see those pictures.”

“Not me, I guess. Say didn’t he die?” Danny asked.

“Gallagher? You heard that too, huh? I’d hoped to track him down first. My boss thought he’d be a lot easier to get to.”

“I heard he wrapped his car around a tree back in ’55.”

“Nah, that was Jackie Coogan—or maybe that Durkin kid back in the 30s.” Coolidge disagreed.

“So which one was Gallagher then?”

“Gallagher? You’d know him if you seen him. He wasn’t half-bad, actually.  Made some good pictures, not the usual fuzz stuff for kids back then. Anyways, we’ll probably cut the piece seeing there’s no one left. It’s a shame though.”

Danny felt his lips part. He sighed and looked away. He took one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the bottom of his boot.

“Sorry to be your third strike,” Daniel said under his breath.

“Come again?”             

“Probably best, I said.” Danny smiled. “A waste of time writing about a Technicolor no one’s probably watched in twenty years. I’m sure you’ll get some better material next time. Something more interesting than a bunch of dead actors,” Danny said. The reporter looked up and smiled.

“Just because you’re dead—don’t mean people lose interest.” The reporter flicked the brim of his hat and nodded, “Thanks for the light, buddy.”

Danny watched him step out of the lobby and into the cold winter light.

When he was gone, Danny felt a light brush against his shoulder and smelled the weak, honey scent of soap still on her skin. Her hair fell long and straight over her shoulders. She’d changed into her lemon-colored jacket.  

“Who was that?” she asked looking over his shoulder.

He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair away from her face.

“No one special.”

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Gallagher.”

Daniel waited until she fell asleep. He removed her socks and pushed a jumble of shiny packages off the bed. He laid a hand on her bare foot. When she didn’t stir, he put on his coat and grabbed her hotel keys. He watched her sleeping face, her mouth parted slightly, her strict little chin appearing relaxed for once. The hotel room door shut with a low click behind him. He stood for a moment outside the door, listening in case she’d woken. He heard nothing then made his way down the hallway, avoiding the elevator and taking the stairs instead. Downstairs, he walked out of the lobby entrance, not as sure-footed as the young reporter had been, but with the most conviction he could muster. He barely caught the 6 headed south to Bleecker Street.

He’d never thought of his apartment as cozy, but now it seemed downright bleak. It was funny what you could get used to, especially if you didn’t go around hoping for something better. That
something better
had found him though. He searched his apartment, opening the few boxes he had until he found what he was looking for. He tucked it in his pocket and left, locking the door behind this time.
Something better
.

He caught the subway back uptown. By the time he returned to the hotel, his bones were aching from the cold. He unlocked Katie’s door, relieved to find her sleeping in her street clothes where he’d left her. He took the small box from his pocket. He grabbed a shopping bag from the bedroom floor, the one with the candy-cane wrapping from the five-and-dime. He left the room for several minutes—then returned to her. He undressed and crawled in bed. She blearily turned to him, murmured something then wrapped her arms around his waist. Her breathing became heavy again and he fell asleep beside her.

He woke a few hours later to the shift of her body next to his. A beam of light from the parlor room lit the gauzy outline of her hair.  Her back was to the headboard, now wearing a nylon nightgown. She pulled her knees to her chest and looked down at him.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling himself up so he too rested against the backboard.

“I’m scared, of course,” she said, but her voice was calm. 

“I know.”

“Let me help.”

“The trip, Katie—anyways you can’t.”

“But why, why do you have to go?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Can’t, or just don’t want to?” she asked, but he never answered.

“I’m married, you know.”

“I know,” he said. 

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I think it’s real good, Katie.”

“And the baby?”

“Yeah, all of it.”

He put his arm over her shoulder and turned her face to his. Her large, shiny eyes reflected against the parlor light. He skimmed the side of her face and kissed her lightly. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Do you remember that night when we were kids—at the Riviera?” she asked.

“Yes, but—”

“You don’t remember much?” she finished.

“It’s not so bad as that.” He smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

“We were on that hill by the club. You asked me what I’d been running from. Do you remember that?”

“Of course I do. I remember it… because after that—I knew,” he said.

“You did?” Her voice sounded frail in the dark. Her hands began to shake.

“Uh- huh. I knew right then… that I was going to take you to Catalina one day.” 

She lifted her forehead from his, searching for the poker face—but there was only sweetness in his smile. Her hands stopped trembling.

“You sure know how to make a girl wait. Why didn’t you tell me then?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess—because… not everything that happens is worth talking about.”

She smiled and kissed him. He took her in his arms, lowering her until she was flat on her back. He smoothly pulled the nightgown over her head, and they were skin to skin. He lost his fingers in her hair, overwhelmed by the feel of her bare body in his arms. He buried his face in her neck, and groaned miserably when she wrapped her legs around his back. She found his mouth again.

“Katie.”

“Hmm,” she murmured against him.

“Katie,” he repeated and pulled back breathlessly, looking over her confused face.

“Katie—I—I can't,” he whispered.

She breathed shallowly underneath him. She looked at him—and a tear fell from the corner of her eye. The questioning look in her eyes sank into the sad acknowledgement of something she’d already known. He buried his face into her hair.

“I can't.”

“I know. I don’t want you to,” she cried.

He gathered her against his chest and pulled their blanket into a cocoon around them. He rocked her against him and spoke in her ear until the morning came. He told her everything she'd wanted to know, the answers to the questions she'd been too good to ask. He retold stories she’d almost forgotten, followed by those she had. When there were no more stories left to tell, and he'd answered all the bad questions—she fell asleep.

He held her for a long time while she slept, his face tired and sad. But there was an exhilaration to his sadness—an exhilaration to his fatigue. He was weightless, yet mired down in the bittersweet scent of her hair, the image of how he thought they looked in that moment. How many times had they been here? But also how few. He thought of her yellow hair against the green bedsheets the night they came back from Catalina, his thumb twined in her hair at the jazz club. How she’d never asked anything of him.